I Was a Teenage Freak
by nigglesnush
Summary: Ororo investigates the brutal murder of a young mutant and comes face to face with the full horror of humanity's inhumanity. Rated R for language. WIP.
1. Prologue

**I Was a Teenage Freak**

Prologue

"Jesus," Ororo Munroe whispered, covering her mouth with her hand. Somewhere in the bottom of her stomach, bile began to churn unpleasantly.

Beside her, Peter Rasputin winced. Wolverine, aside from sniffing once, gave no indication of what he was feeling.

The three of them were standing at the entrance of an alley, where the harsh glare of a streetlamp was casting a ghoulish shadow on the corpse in front of them.

The corpse, before it became a corpse, had obviously been a mutant. It lay coiled on the wet and grubby ground, a grotesque segmented body that resembled a gigantic worm, pink and orange and red under the flashing neon sign of the club next door.

Stubby arms were thrown over what only slightly resembled a human face --- the person had tried to defend himself. Deep, angry slashes covered his arms and his upper body, but the one that had killed him was immediately evident.

It was a ragged opening in his chest, no bigger than any of the other cuts, but clearly more fatal. Blood, still warm and fresh, bubbled and spurted around it, spilling to the ground and mixing with the grime, gasoline and rainwater. The neon sign was reflected in it, staining it with brilliant and morbid colors.

Outside the alley, the world went on unaware. Dance music pumped out of the club as the door opened to let people in. A taxi driver was blowing his horn and yelling cusses in Pakistani. Other drivers were responding in kind.

It seemed unreal to Ororo, as though the alley and the street outside had somehow become the stage for an outlandish movie that hyped and glorified death in all its cold grisliness.

Except... except she could smell the garbage in the dumpster next to the body (or was that the body itself?). She could hear water dripping from an air conditioner above their heads. She felt the chill in the air that carried the foul stench of decay. Whether that smell was coming from the corpse or the city itself, she couldn't tell.

"Jesus Christ," she whispered.

All at once, tears of fear, panic and disgust filled her eyes. She would later pity and grieve for the slain mutant as if she'd known him, but right now all she wanted to do was get away. Her vision suddenly became clouded, and she began to back out of the alley.

"I knew I smelled something dead," Wolverine said. The detachment in his voice frightened her.

"We should call the police," Peter said. His voice sounded strained, as though he was trying to keep himself from freaking out. In a selfish way, that comforted Ororo.

"Right, Russkie," Wolverine said. There was just the slightest hint of a sneer in his voice. "'Cause the cops are gonna be so eager to find out who killed a fucking mutie. And a dog-ugly one, at that."

"What do you suggest then?" Peter demanded. "That we leave him here and wait until somebody notices the smell?"

Wolverine didn't respond, but his indifferent expression suggested that he'd been thinking something along those lines.

"Let's get out of here," Peter said, following Ororo as she barreled away from the alley.

* * *

Ororo didn't sleep at all that night. As soon as she, Peter and Wolverine came through the doors of Xavier's Institute, she ran up the stairs and went into her bedroom, locking the door behind her.

Henry had seen her and looked concerned. He probably would have followed after her and asked what was wrong, if she hadn't thrown him a look that unmistakably told him to stay away. She wasn't in the mood for company. And she sure as hell didn't want to have to explain to anyone what she'd seen tonight.

She threw herself on her bed, grabbed her headphones and pulled them over her head. As loud rock music began to assault her ears, she slid down on her pillow and curled up, hugging her knees to her chest.

She had never felt safe in any place until she'd come to Xavier's Institute. Running away from home, living in the streets, she'd been in constant terror of hunger, of the cold, of rape, of being killed, of ending up behind bars when the beat cops found out that she'd been boosting cars all the way from Texas.

But since Jean Grey had busted her out of jail and taken her to the school, she felt for once that she could sleep peacefully, without fear. Even as an X-Man, when she had to face more dangers than the average man on the street could boast of, she still felt that she could keep all those things outside the school and outside her room.

But now it seemed that the world, with all its perils and promised pain, had found its way inside her last sanctuary.

Ororo turned up the volume of her CD player and closed her eyes against her tears, willing away the visions of the dead mutant and his blood running red along the ground.

_To Be Continued_


	2. A Man Called Horse

A Man Called Horse

There was an old Italian saying that went something like, "When no one knows anything, everyone knows something." It certainly seemed to be the case in Devon Bradley's neighborhood in Queens.

Ororo had been going there everyday for the past week, to see if anyone could tell her anything that might help her figure out how that fourteen year old boy ended up dead in an alley in the Bronx. But every person in that damned place had been the exact opposite of helpful. They'd either shut the door in her face, told her to fuck off or else denied any knowledge 'til they were blue in the face. So far, all she'd been able to turn up was that Devon's mother was glad someone had killed her "fucking mutie son."

Spiteful bitch.

This wasn't an assignment Ororo had wanted, not by a long shot.

The day after she, Wolverine and Peter had discovered the corpse of Devon Bradley, the X-Men had had their daily Danger Room exercises. She'd been distracted, to say the least, and had nearly been hit by a laser beam she could have easily avoided in flight.

Luckily, Peter had stepped in front of her and borne the brunt of the attack. Unluckily, that one-eyed nerd Cyclops had decided to blab all to Professor Xavier like a third grade tattletale.

The Professor called her to his office and expressed his concern for her.

"No one could come away unaffected from seeing that massacred boy," he said gently.

Wolverine did, Ororo thought, but didn't say out loud.

"Wolverine," Professor X said, hearing her anyway, "is a little different from the rest of us. His suffering in the Weapon X program, his countless war experiences --- these have hardened him so that he often looks at death with dispassionate interest. But you… you are young and unacquainted with such things. Tell me, Ororo, is this the first dead body you've ever seen?"

Memories that seemed like the tail end of dreams hammered at Ororo's mind --- her father, his face blown apart and unrecognizable, her mother, body bent and twisted, blood everywhere, God, there was so much of it, and herself, screaming in pain, crying out, crying ---

_No._ She couldn't start remembering it again. Ororo steeled herself against her memories, unconsciously pulling away from the Professor as she tried to stop herself from retreating into that place, that place that had filled her nightmares since she was a child.

"No," she said softly. "No, not the first. But it was bad enough."

For some twisted reason, Professor X thought it would be a good idea if she investigated Devon Bradley's murder as an extracurricular assignment.

She should have said no. She wanted to say no. She didn't want to have anything more to do with it. But the image of Devon's grossly mutilated body kept popping up in her head. It filled her with revulsion and fear, and beneath it --- sympathy. No person deserved to suffer so horribly.

The cops were never going to do everything they could to find the killer. They were probably glad that there was one less mutant in the world. Who was going to give that boy justice, if not the X-Men? Ororo understood that. But why her? Why not Jean, with her telepathy, or Wolverine with his tracking skills?

She knew the answer, though she was afraid to confront it. Professor X had chosen her because she had seen the body up close, the body that used to be a living, breathing boy. He had chosen her because, in a strange way, she had some personal stake in this. She, too, had suffered an enormous loss in her life. Her parents didn't die because of mutant persecution, but they died all the same, in a manner just as violent.

The Professor knew, as Ororo knew, that she had to do this; for Devon, and ultimately for herself.

* * *

So here she was now in Devon Bradley's neighborhood, sitting inside a small diner and warming her hands on a mug of coffee. It was raining outside. She'd tried to make it stop, but she didn't have that much control over her powers yet.

Either that, or she didn't want it to stop raining, because then she'd have to start asking around again. She didn't really want to get into that. Not yet. For now, she was content to be indoors, to be warm and safe.

Well, maybe not entirely safe. The other customers in the diner were eyeing her suspiciously. She wasn't surprised. Word seemed to travel fast around here. No doubt they knew who she was and what she was doing. Fortunately, she was already used to feeling unwelcome.

As her eyes roamed over the people in the diner, her gaze fell on a tall boy of about fifteen or sixteen. He was the only one who wasn't staring at her. In fact, he seemed to be deliberately avoiding meeting her eye. More than that, he looked troubled, almost guilty. Ororo made a mental note to herself to talk to him before the day was out.

At that moment, the man who was sitting beside the boy got up from their booth and began to walk toward her. Ororo pegged him as the boy's father; there was a strong resemblance, though the man had none of his son's good looks. He was huge, easily three times her size, and mean looking to boot. She turned her attention to the street outside the window, pretending not to see him.

But then there he was, suddenly standing in front of her, big as a bull and twice as ugly. He bent down so that they were face to face, his mouth set in a menacing scowl.

"We don't welcome your kind around here," he said. His breath was hot and smelled strongly like Scotch.

"Yeah? Too bad," Ororo said flatly, toughing it out. She'd met bigger and scarier men while she was living in the street. She could handle this one, same as she'd handled all the others.

"I heard you've been snooping around, asking questions and sticking your nose in other people's business," the man continued. "That's a good way to get yourself into a whole shit load of trouble."

All the occupants of the other booths were watching them now. The suspicion in their eyes had turned into outright hostility. Ororo took a sip of the foul tasting coffee then set it down. She smiled coldly at the man.

"Thanks for the advice. Now fuck off."

The man blinked, and a dull, pugnacious look came over his bloodshot eyes. Ororo thought for a moment that he was going to throw down with her right then and there, but he only gave her an unpleasant half-grin, half-grimace and went back to his booth.

Ororo finished her coffee, got up from her seat and went to the counter to pay the bill. She could feel everyone in the diner watching her. Before she reached the door, a gust of wind blew it wide open, and she stepped out.

* * *

The rain had finally stopped. Ororo sat on the stoop of an apartment building next door to the diner, waiting for the boy to come out. When he finally did, she walked up to him, grasped his shoulder tightly and said, "We need to talk." Before he could protest, she steered him into an alley not unlike the one where Devon was killed. And despite the fact that the boy was bigger than Ororo, she saw that he was frightened of her.

Good, she thought. He damn well ought to be. She may have been scared and sick to her stomach when she first saw Devon's body, but now she was pissed. It seemed that everyone who knew the kid wanted to pretend he never existed. That he didn't matter. That pissed her off _enormously_.

Once they were out of sight, the boy broke away from her and asked in an unsteady voice, "What do you want?"

"Did you know Devon Bradley?" Ororo asked shortly.

The boy looked down at his feet. The action was so childlike that Ororo realized he was younger than he looked. He was probably fourteen years old too.

"Horse," the boy mumbled.

"What?"

"That's what we called him," he said, looking up. "Because he had big teeth like a horse."

"Cute," Ororo said, shaking her head in disgust. "So what happened to him?"

The boy looked up at her, visibly alarmed.

"I-I can't tell you," he stammered. "Look, I have to get out of here."

He tried to rush past Ororo, but she planted her feet directly in front of him and shoved him backwards, so that he was forced to sit on a crate.

"No," she said forcefully. "You're staying right here until you tell me everything you know."

"I can't!" the boy burst out.

Ororo quickly switched gears. Clearly, the boy was scared. Bullying him was not the best way to gain his confidence. In a gentler tone, she asked,

"Why not?"

"He made me promise not to," the boy answered.

"Who?"

But the boy only shook his head.

"Your dad?" Ororo guessed, pressing him urgently. "Did your dad tell you not to tell anyone about Devon?"

Slowly, reluctantly, the boy met her eyes and nodded.

"Christ," Ororo muttered. She knelt in front of him. He was looking smaller and more lost by the minute. "Okay, okay… Listen. It's really important that you tell me the truth. I know you're scared. Your dad… he looks like a fucking scary guy. But I know people who can protect you from him. Just tell me what you know. Please. A boy is dead. He's _dead_ and it's not fucking _right_."

The boy was now shaking his head slowly, his face buried in his hands.

"It's not about that. You don't know," he said, his voice quiet and despairing. "You couldn't know. There's nothing you can do about it. You're way in over your head."

"Aren't you going to let me decide that for myself?" Ororo replied.

The boy raised his head from his hands and gave her a bitter smile that was eerily similar to his father's half-grimace.

"You don't know what you're asking," he said, sounding strangely low and hollow.

"Try me," Ororo said gravely.

* * *

The same neighborhood, four years ago:

Horse got out of the cab and stepped onto the curb, pulling his suitcase along with him. He looked up at the sky.

Damn, it had to be a cloudy day. He could only hope that he could pass off wearing shades everyday, like Popeye Pataki, the coolest kid on the block, did.

Horse paid the cab driver and began to lug his suitcase up to his apartment building. As the cab whizzed by, he heard Joel Sullivan calling out to him, "Hey, Horse! Where you been all summer?"

Horse turned to face his friend, who was jogging towards him. He smiled wanly.

"Visiting my pop up in Syracuse," he told Joel.

"What's up with the shades, brutha?" Joel teased. "You tryin' to look like Popeye Pataki?"

Horse winced inwardly.

"No," he said. "I was just trying it out."

"Need help with that?" Joel said, pointing to Horse's suitcase.

"Sure," Horse said gratefully.

Joel picked up the heavy suitcase easily. He'd always been the strongest kid their age. He was kind of Horse's hero. Horse followed him now up the steps of the apartment building.

"Thanks," Horse said as Joel set the suitcase down on the top step.

"No problem," the other boy replied. He stood next to Horse, saying nothing. He was obviously waiting to be asked in.

"Listen," Horse said hastily, fumbling for an excuse, "I'd invite you in, but Mom says she doesn't want anyone inside the house today. And I'd hang out with you out here, 'cept I'm kinda beat."

Joel looked mildly disappointed, but not at all surprised. Mrs. Bradley was known for her temper and mood swings.

"Okay, then," he said. "Guess I'll be going. See ya, Horse!" he called as he hurried down the steps.

"Yeah," Horse said after Joel disappeared from sight. "See ya."

Horse let himself in with his key, then dragged his suitcase up two flights of stairs to the apartment where he lived with his mom. He trudged through the living room and started to remove his sunglasses.

His mother, who was sitting on the sofa, saw him and snapped loudly, "Keep those on. It's bad enough you're a- a mutant. I don't want to have to be reminded of it every time I look at you."

Horse immediately put his sunglasses back on. Without saying a word to his mother, he went into his room and locked the door behind him. He heaved his suitcase on top of his bed and looked around.

Well, his mom sure didn't waste any time. She had boarded up all his bedroom windows in anticipation of his return. She hated her son and what he had suddenly become over the summer, and she sure as hell didn't want the neighbors finding out about it.

He couldn't blame her. He hated himself too, even more than he hated her. Sometimes he wished both he and his mother would just drop dead.

He turned and saw his reflection in the window. It was almost as clear as a mirror because of the wooden board outside. He inspected himself closely and saw a goofy-looking kid with his world famous buck teeth and freckles. His nose and cheeks had gone sweaty in his efforts to carry his suitcase up the stairs. The sunglasses his father bought him were sliding downwards.

Slowly, almost fearfully, he lifted the sunglasses from his eyes. What he saw was enough to make him sob in fear and scream in rage at the same time.

He was now staring at two enormous, lidless eyes. His corneas were blood red and his irises were yellow. His eyes seemed empty and soulless for the lack of pupils.

He looked like a monster. Worse than that, he _was_ one. He stared at himself, and his reflection seemed to mock him. With an anguished cry, he smashed his fist against the windowpane. It cracked with enormous force.

He hit another pane, and another and another until all his bedroom windows were destroyed. Then he cast himself onto his bed, fists hacked and bleeding, and began to wail. His cries were piercing, heartbreaking and not remotely human.

Outside in the living room, Liz Bradley heard her son screaming in his bedroom and breaking glass. She shook her head and turned up the volume of the soap opera she was watching.

Somebody ought to put that animal out of his misery, she thought.

_To Be Continued_


	3. Climb the Cross and Nail Yourself to It

Climb the Cross and Nail Yourself to It

In retrospect, Joel told Ororo as he perched on the wooden crate in the alley beside the diner --- in retrospect, he should have known something was wrong _way _before the shit hit the fan. There were signs everywhere. The thing was, you read and heard all about these mutants, these freaks (Ororo glowered, but said nothing), popping up out of nowhere. One minute, they're as normal as you and me (Joel shot an uneasy look at Ororo), then, boom, the next minute they're something else, something wrong. Something malignant. You heard about these --- these people. Sometimes you even knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who was a mutant. But you never expected someone you really knew to be one of them, someone you... Well, fuck it, that shit happened to other people. It didn't, it shouldn't have happened here.

But it did.

* * *

"Yo, Horse!" Joel called up to Horse's window through cupped hands. "Get your ass down here!"

He wasn't sure Horse heard him, though. His windows were boarded up --- his mom's doing, no doubt. Mrs. Bradley sometimes punished her son by locking him in his room for days on end, and Horse hadn't come out of his apartment since he got back from Syracuse four days ago. She probably wasn't too pleased about him spending his summer vacation with his dad. This was hardly due to Mrs. Bradley's affection for Horse; she wasn't that kind of woman. Joel figured she just disliked giving in to her ex-husband. His pop was like that too, especially during the infrequent times when Joel's mom actually asked for him.

Divorce, he often thought, was a kind of killing bottle.

"Horse!"

This week was the last of summer vacation, and Joel disliked the idea of anyone spending that last precious week cooped up in his bedroom. King and the twins had gone on ahead to the arcade, and Joel had promised to follow shortly with Horse.

He looked around briefly before calling Horse's name again. He'd timed this trip carefully, waiting until Mrs. Bradley had gone off to work, but that lady had a nasty habit of turning up when you least expected her, or when you were doing something you weren't supposed to be doing. He waited a minute, and was about to turn away when the front door of the apartment building burst open and Horse came jogging out, his sunglasses bouncing on his narrow face.

"Took you long enough," Joel said irritably.

"Sorry," Horse said breathlessly. He ran a hand through his thick red hair in attempt to tame it, but only succeeded in making it messier.

"Come on, the others have gone ahead," Joel said, his tone gentler as he turned in the direction of the arcade. It was hard to stay mad at Horse for any amount of time. The guy was such a _victim _that Joel always ended up feeling terrible when he snapped at him. The worst part of it all was that Horse always took abuse, mild or no, lying down. He looked back at him --- Horse was struggling to keep up with his strides, which were twice as long --- and noticed that his hands were wrapped in thick bandages. More of Mrs. Bradley's work, Joel thought angrily. Jesus, what a bitch. He knew she could be heavy-handed sometimes, and her patience never seemed to wear out so quickly as when she was dealing with her son, but God! What could Horse have possibly done to deserve whatever the hell it was she'd done to his hands? He supposed she'd hit him in the face, too, or he wouldn't be wearing those sunglasses. This wouldn't be the first time Horse came away sporting a shiner from an argument with his mom.

Horse noticed Joel looking at his bandaged hands and tucked them quickly into his pants pockets.

Joel drew a deep breath and began to tramp down all the unpleasant thoughts in his head. If he had thought on it for a little while longer, he might have remembered that Horse had been wearing his sunglasses since the day he got back home. But Joel was ten years old, unmindful of such things, and doggedly determined to enjoy the last few days of summer vacation.

* * *

Here Joel halted and told Ororo he couldn't go on with the story until he'd told her about Popeye Pataki, whose tremendous stupidity had kicked up all the shit about Horse.

"Who's that?" Ororo asked.

"Our neighborhood's resident asshole," Joel said. "_Former_ asshole. He got sent up the state pen a year ago, for pushing crack on a bunch of twelve year olds. He and his guys used to make things hard for the younger kids."

"For you?" Ororo said.

Joel sat up straighter.

"No," he said defensively.

Ororo could believe it. Looking at him now, she was hard pressed to believe anyone could bully this kid, unless he was rattled or his tormentor was smarter. Joel was only fourteen, but he was pushing six feet tall and looked strong enough to take on a college quarterback. He would have been a pretty big ten year-old. But Horse, she gathered from Joel's description of him, was probably scrawny and awkward --- the perfect target for your run-of-the-mill schoolyard bully.

"Did Popeye pick on Horse?" Ororo asked.

"All the time," Joel said.

* * *

One of Joel Sullivan, Sr.'s favorite sayings was, "Shit happens." It was probably the only truly profound thing he'd ever said to his son in all his shitty, booze-filled life. Several years in the future, when a thirty-seven year-old Joel Sullivan, Jr. was laid off his job as a high school track coach, he would remember his dear old departed dad's saying and nod to himself. Yes, indeed, shit did happen. Usually for no good reason.

The shit that happened that Joel was now relating to Ororo took place halfway through the fifth grade. Joel, Horse, Evelyn King and the Nelson twins still hung out with each other, meeting at King's mom's greasy spoon practically everyday after school. Unfortunately, the establishment was also the hangout of one Popeye Pataki, when he wasn't prowling the streets with his boys and making as much trouble as he could. Popeye didn't much like Joel and his friends. He never said why, but Joel instinctively felt that Popeye was threatened by him. Joel didn't take anyone's crap lying down. Even if it meant getting the snot beat out of him, he would fight back. Even his father, a great big bullying drunk if ever there was one, hardly ever raised a hand to him (though the same couldn't be said for anyone else who crossed him, Popeye included).

Horse was the exact opposite. Joel guessed that was why he felt so attached to the little guy. He felt the need to protect him, from his mother, from the other kids and especially from Popeye. Pop had it in for Horse ever since he'd come home from Syracuse, sporting sunglasses his father had bought him. That didn't sit too well with Popeye. Sunglasses were his thing. That's what he was known for, that was part of his rep. The fact that Horse never took them off (a strange habit Joel had come to accept about his friend) pissed him off even more.

Listen, Joel told Ororo, the world was full of idiots. Most of them were harmless. Some, like Popeye and Joel's father, could be nasty when they wanted to be. Popeye was only sixteen at the time, prickly as a horny alley cat, dumb as an ox, vain even though he was about as good-looking as road kill (not for nothing was he called Popeye), and possessed of a crack headed, arrogant kind of meanness that made him dangerous to people who were scared. People like Horse.

Joel knew from experience that cruel people smelled it when other people were afraid of them. It gave them a rush that they got off on. Popeye was just like that. It didn't surprise Joel, then, to find him and his boys surrounding Horse one day after school. They had him backed up against his apartment building's wall and were waling the living daylights out of him.

Joel was himself coming out of the liquor store across the street. The owner, Moran, let him buy booze as long as his pop called ahead to say he was sending his boy over. As soon as he saw Popeye and his boys, he ran across the street to help Horse. He stepped between him and Popeye and said, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Fuck off, Sullivan," Popeye said.

"No, you fuck off," Joel said, and suddenly Popeye slugged him across the face.

Pain flashed across Joel's mind, blinding him. He grabbed his nose, which was bleeding freely, and cried out. Dimly, he realized that the bottle of whiskey had slipped from his hand. He heard it crashing on the sidewalk and thought,

_Dad_'_s gonna kill me_.

He heard muffled voices beside him. One of them sounded like Denny Albright saying,

"Christ, Pop, you broke his fucking nose. His dad's gonna have your ass."

"Shit on his dad, man, you think I'm scared of him?" Popeye snarled.

Joel felt Popeye shoving him aside. Still blinded and weak, Joel swayed and fell heavily on the pavement. Sharp pinpricks of pain sliced into his hands and chest --- _the bottle_, he thought dully as cold liquor spread across his shirt. Blood was still flowing from his nose. He put the collar of his shirt against it and blinked rapidly. The pavement below him began to come into focus, and he looked up.

His head was still spinning, and though he could see Popeye, it was like watching him from beneath the surface of a swimming pool. The older kid was standing in front of Horse, who was cowering against the wall behind him.

"Thought you could get away with stealing my thing, didja?" Popeye hissed, leaning close toward Horse. "You ugly ass, snot-nosed punk."

Without knowing or understanding why, Joel felt a surge of horror in his stomach as Popeye snatched Horse's sunglasses from his face. Somehow, he would realize later, he had known --- he had known those sunglasses were hiding something horrible, something that wasn't meant to be seen by human eyes. In the instant Popeye flicked Horse's shades from his face, Popeye and his boys froze, staring in horror at the younger kid.

"Jesus," Joel heard Denny saying, in a low, frightened voice. "What the hell are you?"

Joel heard Horse whimpering and saw him covering his face with his hands. For the briefest of moments, he thought he saw something... not quite natural about Horse's face. He looked at Popeye and his crew, his head clearer now, and saw that they were backing away from Horse, looking (there was no other word for it) completely terrified. Something dropped from Popeye's hand, landing in front of Joel, and suddenly he and his boys were running across the street.

Joel got up slowly, still holding his shirt to his nose, and watched in amazement as Popeye and his gang ran as quickly and as far away from them as they could.

What the hell was that? Joel wondered. He looked down at Horse, who had slid down to the ground, his body curled up like a baby's and his hands covering his face. He was sobbing softly. His arms were bruised, and blood was dripping from his temple.

"Don't hurt me," Horse begged as Joel approached him. "Please don't hurt me."

"It's me," Joel said, kneeling next to him.

"My glasses," he said in a low, sniffling voice.

Joel turned and picked up the thing Popeye had dropped. He extended it to Horse, but Horse didn't reach for it.

"Here they are," he said. "Come on, Horse, take 'em."

When Horse remained immobile, Joel reached for his arm and pulled it away, planning to deposit the sunglasses in his hand.

He instantly wished he hadn't.

Something inhuman stared back at him. Joel crouched on the ground, frozen, struggling vainly to break away from the gaze of those eyes; massive, lidless, blood red eyes, hypnotic and terrible, unbearable to look at. All at once pain stretched tightly across his chest. He couldn't breathe, and every time he tried he felt as though someone were smothering him with a pillow.

_Let me go,_ he thought as he fought to suck air into his lungs. _God, let me go, please, please, let me go ---_

Horse turned away with a cry, and instantly Joel began to breathe again. He fell back from Horse, meaning to run away. But there was no strength in his legs or his body. Instead, he got down on his hands and knees and crawled. Horse got up and fled into his building. Joel kept on, breathing deeply. No one saw and no one helped him. When enough strength finally flowed back into his limbs, he struggled up to his feet and ran, limping, back to his own apartment.

He fumbled for what seemed like an hour, trying to get his key into the door knob. When he finally managed it, he went into the living room, where he heard the TV running. His dad was on the couch, beer in hand. He stared at his son, agape.

Blood was still flowing from his nose. His hands and chest were pricked with glass. He looked down at his hand and saw that he still had Horse's sunglasses.

"Dad?" he called out, and fell to the floor in a dead faint.

_To Be Continued_


End file.
